


Old Roses

by bastet_in_april



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1950s, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Constance Spry, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's love language is plants, F/F, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Ineffable Spouses, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Roses, flower arrangements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:22:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27323419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastet_in_april/pseuds/bastet_in_april
Summary: It was a green thing, love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20
Collections: Ineffable Wives Exchange 2020





	Old Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wasleichtes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasleichtes/gifts).



_1954, Mayfair_

It wasn’t the first time Crowley had loitered along South Audley Street, leaning against the brickwork of a block of flats, hands buried in her trouser pockets as she watched the stream of fashionably dressed people pass in and out of Flower Decorations. It wasn’t a new shop. It had already been established there for several years when Crowley had pulled herself from the dark curtain of sleep, roused by the tumult of impending war. She hadn’t paid much attention to it, then. Neither had the rest of London. Who had time for flowers when the world was coming apart at the seams?

Seeing Aziraphale that night in 1941, and the way she had looked at Crowley--something vulnerable, conflicted, and vast shifting under the surface of her storm-cloud eyes... Everything had felt new the next morning, leaving the bookshop at dawn, air-raid sirens gone silent and London stirring to take stock of the night’s damage. Aziraphale had watched her go from the doorway of the shop, wisps of blonde hair forming a pale halo around her face, her manicured hands smoothing out her slightly rumpled, fifty years out-of-date walking skirt. Crowley’s eyes had kept drifting back to her behind her dark glasses. She had finally cleared her throat and started the Bentley’s engine, breaking the spell.

They hadn’t spoken of it--the fight they had had, and the nearly eighty years of bitter silence that had followed it. Not that night, not the next morning, not in any of the days that had followed. It lurked in the space between them, when they met, unaddressed and sharp-edged, keeping them at a remove. Things weren’t as they had been. Nothing was easy between them.

And yet, when Crowley's eyes had met Aziraphale’s from across the pond in St. James Park, even then she could see something bloom behind them, some fierce and striving thing struggling towards the sun. She looked at that beloved, stubborn face, lighting up to see her, and felt something unfurl between her ribcage in turn, like new leaves. It was a green thing, love.

Which left Crowley loitering outside a flower shop, eyeing the arrangements in the window. They were sprawls of vegetation, spilling over from dainty neoclassical vases, wild with curling greenery, bare branches, and undainty wildflowers. Cabbage leaves were honored alongside daylilies. Here were older rose varieties disdained by florists but more fragrant than their hothouse cousins. These arrangements were still half-wild, and had not forgotten their origins in dirt, bush, hedge, and garden. She needed to find the right one to express this thing that she and Aziraphale both felt, but dared not address directly. Crowley would have. She wanted to say everything she thought when she saw Aziraphale smile, when the angel did something ridiculous, when Aziraphale danced in her seat with joy over a perfect souffle or an exquisite line of poetry. Crowley wanted to fight every demon in Hell to have that. Aziraphale, despite wanting back (or so Crowley believed), wouldn’t dare it, not when it might mean certain destruction. But Crowley could say it with this other language that had formed between them--small gifts, dinner invitations, meandering conversations over wine, clandestine time spent together, little gestures of kindness… And, yes, flowers.

It wasn’t the first time Crowley had given Aziraphale flowers. The first time had been in Babylon, a vividly orange starburst of a flower, plucked impulsively from the Hanging Garden on an impulse as they strolled through it together, marveling at this latest remarkable human endeavor. Aziraphale had scolded her, but had held the flower close to her chest, ducking her head to smell it when she thought Crowley wasn’t watching, the soft skin of her neck creasing into folds.

In 1823, when Crowley had finally stopped haunting London between jobs and made a permanent home of Mayfair, Aziraphale had produced a splendid bouquet for her as a housewarming gift. She had simply slipped it into Crowley’s hands after the two had exchanged a bit of information about their most recent assignments while taking in a rather pleasant outdoor concert, brushing off Crowley’s flustered surprise.

Crowley had agonized over that bouquet, searching it for every scrap of meaning and intention. Le langage des Fleurs had been published a few years previously, and the text had made its way to London society from the continent, becoming madly popular. Crowley was quite certain that Aziraphale would have a copy, first edition and lavishly illustrated, no doubt. Had she hidden a message in the bouquet? 

The trouble with floriography was that the flowers could have multiple, often contradictory meanings. Were these fragrant white roses meant to indicate a devoted love or the need for secrecy? What of the pansies and violets (tender affection and faithfulness)? What if Crowley decoded flirtation where only friendship was extended? She told herself friendship would be enough, while cradling the sweetly scented myrtle to her heart in the privacy of her flat. The flowers still stayed evergreen, blooming unwilted in the secret space of the safe behind the sketch of ‘La Gioconda.’ 

No floriography for this bouquet. Better to make this message simple, and specifically for Aziraphale. Crowley wanted to be clear. The urgency that had been pressing her since the 1800s had only felt more needful since that night in 1941 when she had driven Aziraphale back to her shop and lingered there.

Crowley stepped into Flower Decorations and nodded sharply to the sensibly dressed young woman behind the counter--one of the venerable Constance Spry’s many students. The woman peeled off the thick pruning gloves she was wearing and smiled at her, mouth outlined in shell pink lipstick. “Hello! Decorating for a party, or buying for someone special?”

“Very special,” Crowley answered. She hoped that her grin wasn’t as soppy as she was afraid it was. The woman behind the counter cooed at her.

***

The bell above the shop’s door chimed merrily. Aziraphale startled and looked up from the volume of poetry she had been reading, her brow furrowed over her mother-of-pearl cat’s-eye glasses. The frown melted at the sight of Crowley, arms loaded with flowers and greenery, looking hopefully at her.

“Crowley! I wasn’t expecting you today.” She got up, marking her place in the book with a curl of ribbon.

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah, well, I was in the area. Thought I’d drop by. It’s not a bad time, is it?”

“Oh! No, no, my dear. It’s nearly evening; I’ll just close up shop a bit early.” Aziraphale took great satisfaction in flipping the sign in the shop door over to proclaim CLOSED to any customer who might dare to peer inside. She turned back around to face Crowley, only to have the flowers thrust into her arms.

“These are for you,” Crowley seemed to be struggling a bit with getting the words out, and her face was doing something urgent and strange. “I wanted to give them to you. Saw them, and wanted you to have them. From me.”

They were roses, but not the carefully manicured sort sold in bouquets of a dozen. These were old garden roses. Here were gallic roses, the heady scent a reminder of times hundreds of years past now, she and Crowley sprawling against stone masonry and drinking wine together. Crowley had had that lovely saffron colored palla that she had worn over her long black stola. It had matched the remarkable color of her eyes, newly hidden behind dark glass. Pale white alba roses recalled a time when Crowley had bestowed one upon her--a favor given to the noble knight Aziraphale before a tournament along with a joking caution that she not fall off her horse. Many petaled cabbage roses, as full and ruffled as Aziraphale’s confection of a silk dress from the time Crowley had rescued her from prison in revolutionary France--and exactly the same color, as well. Moss roses, tenacious and hardy but soft, with fuzzy sepals cradling prolific blooms. Vividly red five-petaled tea roses, slow to grow, but extraordinarily beautiful and fragrant when they finally unfurled flowers in full bloom. And twined all through the bouquet was greenery--tenacious English Ivy, which never gave up a foothold, the frond of the Kentia palm, which Crowley had managed to cultivate in her flat in the 1880s and thrived all the more fiercely for the dark and polluted air of Victorian London and made a new home of it, and the mostly bare branches of an apple tree in winter, a few green leaf buds hinting at a new beginning. Aziraphale’s satin gloved fingers brushed a blush-pink rose’s petal delicately. Crowley made a quiet choking sound in the back of her throat, startling the angel from her reverie.

“They’re lovely, Crowley. I’ll just put these on the counter shall I, so that everyone can enjoy them.”

“They’re for you, angel. Put them where you can enjoy them. I got them because I want to give you flowers every time I see you. The way you smiled, just then, that’s why. I want to see you look like that every day. You’re the only one who makes me feel that.”

Aziraphale felt a swoop of terror and excitement in her stomach. There was the sensation of being on a precipice, looking out at a great expanse of dark sky, with dawn beginning to climb it’s way up over the horizon. She might misstep and slip, but surely it was worth it to experience this beauty? Caution caught her by the throat. “I’ll--put these in the back room, then. Come and sit down with me?”

They shouldn’t be doing this, but she didn’t want to apart from Crowley yet.

Crowley threw herself down on the squashy brocade couch, as Aziraphale opened a bottle of wine, leaving it to breathe on the cabinet. Crowley gave it a moment of thought and then toed off her stiletto heels, wiggly her toes in her stocking with a sigh of pure relief. “Torture devices,” she explained to Aziraphale’s raised eyebrow. “Could sell the idea to Hell and get a commendation for it. Might do, actually. The things humans’ll do for fashion… Well, I don’t need to tell you. You remember powdered wigs, chopine sandals, and hobble skirts just as well as I do.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I’ve never seen the point of keeping up with trends.” She smoothed out her wool skirt, and made a little movement as if to toss her unfashionably short hair. Crowley grinned at her. 

“S’why I got you old roses. They’re not popular. Won’t find those in a Valentine bouquet. Thing is, they’re more beautiful than designer roses. Designer roses don’t smell like anything. Old roses smell like all the best things in the world, like every good memory of--” Crowley cut herself off there, the sentence hanging unfinished in the air between them. The wine had surely rested long enough, but Aziraphale couldn’t stir herself, caught in the perfect golden amber of possibility. Somewhere in the bookshop, the gramophone was playing Kaye Ballard, her voice humming through the bridge over the swelling of strings and crooning, “In other words…” It was evening, and the dim electric light caught the red of Crowley’s hair, turning it into a blaze. Aziraphale couldn’t see her yellow eyes behind her sunglasses, but she could feel the intensity of them on her. 

This was a declaration. They were doing this. All the things they dared not address crowded in like hungry ghosts, but the back room of the bookshop was quiet and cozy, fragrant with the scent of roses and wine--a space just for them, a home, if she dared think it.

Aziraphale abandoned her usual armchair, and sat down beside Crowley on the couch. Crowley’s eyes were wide, and she made to swing her legs down to make space for Aziraphale. Aziraphale stopped her, her gloved hand resting gently on the knee of Crowley’s linen trouser leg, settling Crowley’s legs over her lap. Crowley stilled, and the press of her was warm and familiar. “I thought of you,” Aziraphale said. “When I smelled those roses, I remembered you. Little things: the time we drank together in the first century, the way that saffron palla flattered you, the way you used to complain about that palm, though I could tell that you were secretly proud of it, the time you offered me a rose and laughed at how undignified I was trying to clamber on top of a horse in full armor. You’re in all of my best memories, Crowley. Every wonderful thing about the world is wonderful because you’re here with me, experiencing it.” Aziraphale’s voice was tight with nerves, but emphatic. “I--this thing you’re saying with the flowers. I feel that, too. The thing that makes me smile is you. It’s such a tremendous risk. I feel as though, if I lost you, I wouldn’t ever smile again.”

Crowley kissed her once, gently, the press of her mouth soft as a petal. Her narrow chest pressed against Aziraphale’s, and she could feel the lines of the corset under Crowley’s silk shirt. “I’m going to find a way,” Crowley said, fiercely. “You make me want to fight for you, Aziraphale, and that scares the hell out of me. I’d usually rather turn and run, but, for you, I’d fight.”

“I don’t want you to fight for me,” Aziraphale said, shakily.

“I know,” Crowley said. “I know. But how could I not? It’s like--like a sunflower turning to face the sun. You’re my sun, Aziraphale. I look at you, and I bloom.”

Aziraphale cradled Crowley’s head and kissed her, something thorn-sharp and beautiful unfolding its petals in her chest.


End file.
